


Whatever Souls Are Made Of (His and Mine are the Same)

by theywere-neverhomeless (notyourdadsaugspecialist)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M, Suicide, dead!Dean, grieving!sam, second person narrative, seriously very angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-26
Updated: 2016-09-26
Packaged: 2018-08-17 09:48:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8139607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notyourdadsaugspecialist/pseuds/theywere-neverhomeless
Summary: Your brother is dead.He’s been dead before, and you thought maybe it would hurt less this time, but it doesn’t. It claws at you, ripping at your insides like a hungry animal until you’re panting. Your insides are ragged, sharp and pointy with grief and pain.(set directly after Dean's death in S9E23, when Sam is drinking in the library before going off to summon Crowley. Obvs canon-divergent from that point.)





	

Your brother is dead. 

You grab the bottle of whiskey at the base, hands shaking, and it slips out of your grip minutely as you sloppily pour your fourth, eighth glass. Whiskey drips along the table, like the blood that dripped from your brother’s face as you held him limp in your arms.

You clench your jaw, eyes stinging, and down the glass. It burns, and you cough, but you need that. The pain is grounding, distracting.

Your brother is dead.

He’s been dead before, and you thought maybe it would hurt less this time, but it doesn’t. It claws at you, ripping at your insides like a hungry animal until you’re panting. Your insides are ragged, sharp and pointy with grief and pain.

Your brother is dead.

You pour another glass, emptying the bottle into your cup, and when you down that, you scream at the bottle. Your fingers clench around the neck and suddenly it’s flying through the air, crashing into the pillar by your table. The glass shatters, shards and dust scattering across the floor. The sight of the destruction almost makes you smile. It’s almost satisfying, for an instant, to destroy something.  But then your gut clenches.

Your brother is dead.

You know, deep down that there’s nothing you can do to bring him back. You know you can’t demon-deal yourself out of this. You know there’s no spell, no angel magic, no pleading to the gods to bring him back. You’d march straight down to the Cage and get on your knees to beg Lucifer if you thought it would help. But you know it wouldn’t.

Your brother is dead.

You remember the fight, only a few months ago, when you were so angry at him. He had betrayed you, made a choice for you  _ again _ . And you told him that you wouldn’t trade his life for yours.  At this point you aren’t sure if you were lying to him or to yourself, but now that you don’t even have the option, you know it isn’t true. 

You gingerly reach out to finger the barrel of your brother’s gun, loaded and shining next to you.  It’s heavy with promise.  It whispers to you, weaving a murmuring song against your eardrums, mixing with the whiskey to form a potent, throbbing compulsion. One click, and you can join him. One muscle spasm, and you can wake up, either in Hell or in Heaven.  Whatever atoms are stitched together to form you, you know that he was cut from the same cloth. You know that wherever you wind up, he’ll be waiting for you.  And that’s all that matters.

Your brother is dead.  
Your brother is dead.  
Your brother is dead.  
Click.

“Heya, Sammy. Missed you, little brother.”

You feel your brother’s arms pull you into a tight embrace, and you cry. You cling to him, and he shushes you, running a hand through your hair.  


  
Your brother is dead.  
Now, you are too.  
But it’s okay, because you’re together.


End file.
